


let us go then, you and i

by lairdofthelochs



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Because I'm pretentious, Introspection, M/M, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12996414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lairdofthelochs/pseuds/lairdofthelochs
Summary: You are twenty-one, and your phone is buzzing with endless news of award nominations. Of glory and fame that is yet to consume you.





	let us go then, you and i

 

>  
> 
> _And indeed there will be time  
>  _ _For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,  
>  _ _Rubbing its back upon the window panes;  
>  _ _There will be time, there will be time  
>  _ _To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet._
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
>  

You’re twenty-one.

When you were ten, the magic age of twenty-one seemed like forever away; a tangible threshold where you would finally figure out the meaning of life. Twenty –one is also half of forty-two— the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. You imagined that when it comes, it would feel like a punch in the gut— that you are finally An Adult.

When you were seventeen and Luca called you, telling you about this project that he was working on, you knew that it would somehow change your life— even if you could not quantify by how much, or in what objective way.

Now you’re twenty-one, and now you know.

Now you’re twenty-one, but you are ten and seventeen at once – and you’re still so far away from forty-two, the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. You are legally An Adult, but you feel far from it. You are still a child, and yet you are a man – but not so much a man as the one you’re staring at now, silently, from afar.

He’s _the_  man you could look up to. 

He's a husband, a father, a friend--

A lover that never was.

You never realized then how much life would change since that summer, since Crema, since _him –_ since you were twenty.

But now you’re twenty-one, and now-- you _know._

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _And indeed there will be time  
>  _ _To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"_

 

You were born and raised in New York; a purebred city boy used to live in closed spaces – and yet you itched to live and breathe in the open air. That’s why you loved the stage so much – you felt freer— but never as free as you could be when you went to Crema. Ironic, considering how you were majorly confined to yourself; being the only English-speaking person in town, having to attend lesson after lesson – Italian, piano, guitar – cycling.

When he entered your world, it was already expected that he would arrive, and yet you were still wholly unprepared for his gregariousness. You’ve watched _The Social Network_ too many times and remembered being one of those gullible ones who’d thought that there’s two of him in real life, too. You’ve seen _The Man from UNCLE_ enough times to memorize his lines with an atrocious Russian accent, but you would never admit this to him. You’ve trawled through his social media account without actually following him – and this was a long, long time ago, long before he usurped into your life, into that room and interrupted your piano lesson with a casual charm that could only be paralleled by Oliver’s _‘Later’._

_Later._

It’s a word that will haunt you forever.

Later, he will talk incessantly of how open you were, how kind, how loving – and yet it was as if he could not see these qualities within himself. How would you let him know that the reason why you were the way you were – was purely because of him, because you were a reflection of himself, because his openness accentuated yours – akin to mirrors within mirrors?

If you were to say this out loud he would probably laugh it off – nervously, maybe – because somehow you knew deep down that he knew, too. Considering how much he talked of how open you were, this was one thing you could not verbalize.

_Is it better to speak or to die?_

And each day you keep it inside, a part of you dies away—but you think you could die a thousand times over if it means keeping him near.

Would you dare risk it?

Would you?

 

* * *

 

You were twenty when he first smiled at you.

When he first touched you –

When he reached inside your heart with his phantom hands and clenched it in his phantom fists.

It ached then, and it still aches now.

He’d seen all of you and you’d seen all of him. It wasn’t just every pore of his skin, every bristle of his five o’clock shadow against your cheek when he leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t just seeing how his eyes sparkle at the sight of his wife and his children; the bluest of blue – or the way the tips of his ears reddened when he was embarrassed.

God, it had come to the point where you could almost hear his heartbeat quicken when something angered him. How you notice the rise and fall of his chest as he took deeper breaths to calm himself down, the way he gritted his teeth to stop himself from snarling back at those heathens that would not understand what you and him had been through.

You knew the curve of his throat, the up-down motion it made as he swallowed. The scar down his left arm, the tattoos on his wrist and his fingers. You’ve traced those inked letters with your tongue, each line on his palm, each furrow of his brows. You knew him as he knew you, as you’ve laid yourself bare for everyone to see – but you wanted him to see, most of all. You wanted to show him.

Because you couldn’t say it out loud.

You were Elio and he was Oliver – and you were Oliver and he was Elio.

You breathed and tasted him, and you would be lying to yourself if none of it seeped under your skin. That it wasn’t just Oliver or Elio, but it was _him_ – this man, this husband, this father, this friend.

This lover that never was.

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _Do I dare  
>  _ _Disturb the universe?  
>  _ _In a minute there is time  
>  _ _For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._
> 
>  

You are twenty-one now, and now he’s more beautiful than you remembered.

He used to smell of summer sun and raindrops— and now he smells of crisp autumn air and yellowed leaves, all stuck in his perfectly-gelled hair.  He stuffs his long elegant fingers in the pockets of his long, elegant trench coat – as if that would stop him from reaching out to touch you. Collars popped up to hide the neck that you’ve clung on one summer, forever ago – as if to hide the handprints you’ve left there – your mark on him, that he’s yours.

This is your real life, not that summer in Crema – and yet, it feels like life is playing tricks on you. You’ve never felt more like Elio than he is Oliver in this moment, as he tells the interviewer that his mother hadn’t been pleased about the film, invoking the retribution of Oliver's father if he were to find out.

And yet, he openly declares to the world of how much he loves you.

He never tells it to your face, in private moments.

In private moments, he could only stare at you – the same way you stare at him, silently, from afar.

The tragedy is that he loves you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to believe it.

The tragedy is that you couldn’t bring yourself to say it back – not even to the press, to the public. You see him and you see his wife, his children – and your heart aches each time he invites you to his home—to be part of his family. This was what Oliver had done at the end of the book, you realized in annoyance. This was what Elio would have wanted to have, except Elio had more self-preservation than you do.  You’re the usurper now, you’ve usurped his family life—surely this is enough? So how could you possibly ask for more?

You wouldn't dare – would you?

It was as if your whole world would go off-kilter if you did. The whole universe would be disturbed. The parallel, fictional world already had one Elio and one Oliver. This real world doesn’t need another.

So.

_Is it better to speak or to die?_

The tragedy is that with every unspoken word-- with every shared minute that passes, you die a little bit more inside.

 

* * *

 

 

>  
> 
> _And would it have been worth it, after all,_  
>  _Would it have been worth while,_  
>  _After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,_  
>  _After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--_  
>  _And this, and so much more?--_
> 
>  

You are twenty-one, and your phone is buzzing with endless news of award nominations. Of glory and fame that is yet to consume you.

He’s on the other side of the continent –in his lush LA bungalow, probably collecting pistachio shells between the sofa cushions begrudgingly, while you’re back in your New York apartment— of flaky wallpapers and mouldy countertops. He’s left his jumper here– and you’d meant to return it, but he hadn’t asked, so you’d kept it.

It still smells of him.

You wish he’s here to react to the news together. You wish you could talk to him, touch him, kiss him. But he isn’t-- so you clutch to his jumper, instead. Tightly.

Like what his phantom fingers are doing to your heart.

It ached then, it still aches now.

 _Hold hard then, heart,_ you think. _This way at least you live._

 

* * *

 

 

>  
> 
> _Shall I part my hair behind?_ **Do I dare to eat a peach?**  
>  _I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach._  
>  _I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each._
> 
> _I so not think that they will sing to me._
> 
>  

You are twenty-one, and you will be thirty. You will be forty-two – but you will always look back on when you were ten, or when you were seventeen.

You will look back of when you were twenty, when you met him for the first time and was intimidated by everything that was him – from his towering height, from his booming voice; his gentleness and unadulterated affection.

You’re twenty-one, and you're riding high. You’re flying.

You are the wind – but he is your rock. You are the sea and he is your anchor.

 

* * *

 

Later, you will be waiting for his call.

When he does, you will pick up the phone. You will pause at his first ‘hello’—

And you will _speak._

 

* * *

 

You are twenty-one, and you will be thirty – the same age as he was when he first met you. The first time he fell in love with you.

Later, you will look back on the day you finally spoke – and you _lived,_ oh, how you lived.

Now you are twenty-one, and you will live.  

You will _live._

 

_.end_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the first line of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, as are most of the italicized lines in the fic. Consider this a CMBYN RPF fic based on the poem, which-- if you can trust Wikipedia, and also please trust me on this -- can be a lamentation of 'unattained carnal love', which is what I'm driving at from within Timmy's mind. Also, there's a peach reference! (I'm immature, I know). 
> 
> Fun fact: The epigraph of the poem is also written in Italian, taken from Dante's Inferno. 
> 
> 'Hold hard then heart, this way at least you live' comes from Derek Walcott's 'The Fist'. 
> 
> I wish I could write smut for these two, but alas -- I feel like I'm violating something sacred if I do (and I think it will never be good enough???)


End file.
